Bet Night
by steelmongoose
Summary: Life in the Orcish Internment Camps can be brutal and degrading...death even more so. Set in the Warcraft universe around the time of Lord of the Clans.


**Bet Night**

Lord Goldtallow picked his way through the throng of commoners carefully, as if loathe to come into contact with them, the ruffled white of his undershirt's sleeves raised like spotless white flags of surrender. The rest of this outfit, worth more than any ten of the men he was winding his way between would earn in their lifetimes, was made of black velvet liberally decorated with gold piping, padded shoulders to bolster his narrow ones, and a thick golden belt around his middle. Black hose and supple leather shoes lined with black fox fur completed what he liked to think as his "military" style outfit. He wanted to give the impression that he was someone who could sentence a man to death with barely a nod, whereas in reality his power was considerably less. Still, it was the impression that was important to give to these foul-smelling prison camp guards.

Goldtallow sighed inwardly whilst simultaneously holding his breath as he was forced to slip sideways between a pair of mail-armored soldiers. Had these ruffians not heard of soap or clean water? They were beginning to smell as bad as those that they stood watch over, if such a thing were humanly possible. Why oh why did his contemporaries insist on these "nights on the town"?

Finally slipping free from the crush of people crowding the already narrow network of wooden catwalks Goldtallow smoothed the wrinkles in his tunic with a light tug on the hem and approached the enclosed tower where his fellow nobles were already seated, chatting while nibbling on cheeses and fresh fruits laid out on pewter platters.

" Gerric! You made it. Have a seat, the show will be starting shortly! " Viscount Emmeldale called with a beckoning wave of his bejeweled hand, the friendliest to him out of the small group. Heads set with narrow, angular noses or flushed jowls swiveled to note Goldtallow's arrival, but that was all…all except for one of Duke Carroway's usual sniping comment, spoken just loud enough for all to hear.

" Yes, have a seat 'admiral', I see you managed to battle your way through the throng without losing your nerve. Good show, old man. "

The comment was met with equally quiet snickers, one shared by all but the recent arrival and Emmeldale.

After brushing aside possible dust from the top of the pillow set upon a rickety-looking wooden chair Lord Gerric Goldtallow lowered himself gingerly upon it, wincing as he heard the joints creak from his weight.

" Don't let our esteemed colleague's dry wit spoil your night, " Emmeldale comforted as he leaned close to the new arrival.

Goldtallow sighed again.

" My night was spoiled the moment I was close enough to catch wind of this dreadful place. Why do the others enjoy it such? " he whispered back, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Perhaps the taste of it would help his nose lose the stench of unwashed bodies and urine from both the human guards and the beasts who dwelled in the pens below them.

" Come now, you can't tell me your heart doesn't leap a little just before the final blow is delivered, after the furious struggle upon which fortunes can be won or lost. Life's returning to normal in Lordaeron, but the war did give us one good thing; sport the likes of which had never been seen by any of our forefathers. "

Goldtallow snorted, doing his best to look like he did not indeed feel his pulse race as he watched the life-and-death struggle mere yards below his seat.

" Our forefathers were not missing much. I was quite happy before I ever saw an orc, and would quite like to forget them altogether. "

" Heh, you may get your wish. Our sport is killing them faster than the brutes are breeding. The greenskins will be nothing but a bad memory in a generation or two, mark my words most closely, " Emmeldale assured him, punctuating the conviction of his words with a raised index finger.

"Perhaps, " was all Goldtallow gave in response, turning his attention to those gathered.

They were the cream of the crop, to use an expression that sounded perfectly common. Nobility all, though from there the distinction grew fine. Duke Carroway was the highest ranking when Lord Alexei Barov was not present, which was the reason he could cut down his fellows without any repercussions. There was the rotund Lord Shavmoral, whose appetites for food, drink and women was as well-known as the large gut on his torso. He considered himself "passionate" but "debauched" was perhaps a little closer to the truth. The man sat close to Carroway, never a moment when there was not a piece of food in his fingers, body wrapped in deep crimson silks set with a paisley pattern and rich purple accents. He seemed perpetually short of breath, often wheezing if he ever spoke at length about something, which was almost always.

Lord Hazelbrook, eye brows arched in a permanent look of mild distain looked about disinterestedly, frequently indulging in his favorite vice of snuff, taking pinches in between his thin, pale fingers and bringing them up to that large hawk nose. The paleness of the man's complexion was heightened by his raven black hair and waxed moustache, the tips colored slightly from being twirled by snuff-stained fingers. His plum attire was of satin with gold adornments, puffed along the sleeves and shoulders in a vain attempt to make the man look larger than he was.

Viscount Stal was new money, a successful merchant who had all but bought his royal rank, something that Carroway never let him forget. The only thing distinctive about him was that he was categorically unremarkable, of average height and weight, hair that was neither blonde or light brown yet somehow both, and mild eyes a watery blue in color. He compensated for this by always wearing the most lavish and brightly colored clothing he could find, which was the reason for the mustard yellow courtier outfit and the massive green hat that looked like a small goblin dirigible had landed upon his nondescript head. Stal would alternate between periods of absolute silence to a sudden explosion of laughter or giving his enthusiastic support to whatever had just been said, regardless of the subject.

That was the lot of them, aside from Emmeldale and himself, yet there were two notable absences from this group, the subject of which Goldtallow broached to the viscount.

" Where's Lord Barov this day? I know how his eyes light up when he sees spilt blood, and it's not like he doesn't have the gold to lose a wager or two. "

Emmeldale shrugged.

" Methinks he's likely touring the countryside with his family at the bequest of his wife, though he could have picked a better day for it. It looks like rain, " came the response, the viscount peering up at the overcast sky. " Which reminds me, how is your son? "

Goldtallow idly picked at some part of his hose as he answered, face screwing up in a look of distaste.

" You how they are at such a young age, all screaming and soiling themselves. My wife was glad when the pregnancy was over with and the wet nurses and servants could take over and I couldn't agree more. Let me see him again when he can walk and speak in a civil manner I say. "

Emmeldale nodded, having gone through the same thing twice himself with his daughters. His wife had yet to provide him with a suitable heir and laying with her was always so unsatisfying. She just didn't have the same passion his mistress did.

" What of Blackmoore? Still sore over his prize pet losing to that ogre? " Goldtallow smirked, remembering how enraged the head warden of Durnholde had been. Emmeldale didn't smirk back however, face as clouded over as the skies above the two of them.

" We all lost a lot of money that day, well, except for you, being there for your son's birthing. I tell myself that we all took it out of his green hide afterwards, but how can you redeem anything of worth out of something that has none inherent? "

" You'd be singing a different tune if you had won. Nine bouts? What was he thinking? " Gerric chuckled, making sure to keep his voice low. All of those present now had lost money on that fight, assured by Blackmoore that his prize fighter could win. Goldtallow was sure that the warden had received a full-course helping of Carroway's venomous wit that day, no doubt driving the master of Durnholde Keep into another fit of angry drinking.

" Well, all I know is that orc blood doesn't come out of velvet very well and I had to skim a little from the servant's pay for a few months under the guise of a new tax to refill the coffers, " Emmeldale responded sourly, gulping down the rest of his wine before refilling his goblet.

" So he's probably 'going through the books' tonight, " Goldtallow smiled, using the euphemism the two nobles shared when they meant Blackmoore was deep into his cups again. The two laughed at their own cleverness just as a commotion began in the pens below. It was going to start soon.

All around the open pit below them prison guards, farmers from Tarren Mill and fishermen from Southshore ringed the wooden catwalks, not afforded the same luxury that the nobles were. Here a man could win or lose his monthly earnings on the outcome of a fight, bet takers writing down odds and bets on large slates with sticks of chalk.

The whole thing was rowdy and chaotic looking when compared to the regal, detached calm the nobles sat in, but when the action heated up in the pit below the cheers of high born or commoner alike were indistinguishable.

From the noble's right a trio of men approached, the first a well-dressed man with a key hanging from a golden chain around his neck, followed by a attendant straining as he carried a heavy iron-bound chest in his arms. The third was quite different, a large man dressed in steel plate armor, straight-backed and wearing an aura of authority like a cloak.

Eyes peered out from beneath blonde eyebrows while an equally blonde beard brushed against the collar of his breastplate as his head turned, missing little of what was happening around him.

" Your bets, most esteemed gentlemen? " the well-dressed man inquired with a bow when he arrived, drawing forth a smooth plank with a piece of parchment tacked to it, charcoal in hand, ready to write.

As the bet taker worked the plate-armored man stopped just underneath the roof, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed both the nobles and the crowd, noting the guards who patrolled the keep's outer walls and who wove their way through the crowds, watching for inappropriate behavior from orc or human alike. Gold coins clinked as money exchanged hands, bets disappearing into the iron strongbox the bet taker opened with the key hanging from his neck. Goldtallow waved the man away while Emmeldale only bet a handful, trying his best to ignore the snickering of Carroway and Shavmoral.

When at last the bets were taken care of the strongbox was closed and locked, the bet taker excusing himself with a bow while his companion struggled with the now heavier chest. The plate-armored man remained, however, silently observing the compound.

" One thing I never did understand, " Lord Hazelbrook commented between sniffs of his favorite vice, breaking the lull in the conversation " is how these beasts go from sullen lethargy to brutal killers in such a short time. "

" That's easy, " came the reply from Shavmoral. " Give a tame hound the scent of blood and set him loose on something wounded and his true nature is shown. The same goes for these greenskins. Normally they're cowed and obedient but give them the chance to kill something and their savage nature is revealed. "

" I overheard that archmage from Dalaran say that he believed their stupor was a spiritual one. What was his name? Anthony Dias? " Hazelbrook continued, posing the question to all present.

" Antonidas. I suppose the esteemed Kirin Tor has nothing better to do with its time than to figure out why a bunch of savages from the southern kingdoms act sullen after they lose a war they started and get rounded up into prison camps. A load of foolishness is what it is, " Carroway snorted.

" What do you expect from someone of such common birth? " Lord Shavmoral shrugged the comment off, drawing a sharp bark of laughter from Stal, not realizing the other had included him in the statement.

" Why don't we ask the one who spends every day around them? " Emmeldale suggested, noting the smirk that had developed upon the recent arrival's face at the topic.

Heads swiveled to gaze at the armored man, his arms now folded across his chest, a grunt of a laugh preceding his words.

" The hellfire that burned inside these orcs during the war has been all but snuffed out, but with a little bit of alcohol, some taunting from my guards and the proper motivation, they fight and kill again, " he said with a feral grin upon his face.

" What exactly constitutes 'proper motivation' for these beasts, Captain Skarloc? " Duke Carroway asked, popping a sliced chunk of apple into his mouth.

The grin upon Blackmoore's second-in-command was accompanied by a chuckle as he answered.

" They think they still have a future outside of these walls, but I will see each and every one of them pay for what they did to our kingdom, our people. Durnholde Keep and all the camps like it will be the end of them. However, if they came to know this they could no longer be threatened or bullied. You need to still have to hold something precious to fear losing it, and I have found those things. Never fear, gentle lords, I will do everything in my power to ensure that each and every orc will fight fiercely before they die for your betting pleasure. "

Goldtallow couldn't control a shiver that traveled down his spine as he gazed upon Skarloc's face as he spoke. It wasn't that he cared about Skarloc's hatred for the orcs or what cruelties he may inflict upon them at his leisure, just if that gaze and that hatred should ever shift to him. Goldtallow hoped Blackmoore, for all his failings, kept Skarloc well paid.

Fortunately for the lord the horn sounding the beginning of the first match made a few in the audience jump, covering his moment of weakness. Final, frenzied betting was taking place as the crush of people who had come to witness the event crowded around the pit's perimeter, shouting, spilling as much ale on the dirt floor below as made it into their mouths. The clinking of chains could be faintly heard above the din, the nobles in the tower lifting themselves off their seats slightly to peer over the edge at the happenings below. The walls of the pit below them was made up of black iron strips bolted together, with two large doors on either side to allow the combatants, whatever they were, into the ring. Other beasts, be they two or four-legged, would wait queued in pens along the sides, watching the carnage as their turn approached. Black metal spikes decorated the perimeter of the pit, pointing downwards to deter climbing the bars, not that any escaping orc would ever be able to force his way past the jeering crowds or spear-wielding guards.

There was movement in the cages as the first fighters were brought forth, prodded forward with pikes at their backs. The orcs were freed from their manacles only to be shoved out the open doors into the pit, the portals closing and locking behind them. Shouts, curses, ale and spittle rained down upon the pair from all sides, naked except for a pair of rough leather breeches, and so far weaponless. The two greenskins regarded one another carefully, then something in their postures changed, a sort of questioning tilt of their heads. They spoke then, in their rough, barking tongue, Goldtallow unable to hear them over the crowd but saw instead their protruding lower jaws with their disgusting tusks shifting about. The pair then looked up, searching the crowd once again until they fixed their beady black eyes upon Skarloc. The armored man remained impassive, even as one of the pair began to shout loudly at him, throwing his arms wide as a sort of challenge or question.

The only reaction that the captain did have was to signal one of his underlings in the passageways between the cages below. The pair of orcs seemed confused as to what the gesture meant, but soon pivoted to look to the doors the one on the left had come from. Craning his neck so that he may also see what was happening Gerric spied another orc being brought to the door, yet this some seemed very undernourished, no, it was a young one. The orc child wailed and struggled fiercely against the human who half carried, half pushed him along, only to be tossed roughly against the locked door. The two adult orcs shifted as if to go to the youth's aid, but stopped as they saw another creature approach the child first. A coal black mastiff, straining against the thick chain around its neck, lead another prison guard closer to the child, pausing only with considerable effort on the part of the handler several feet from the understandably terrified young orc. The dog growled and barked, chains of saliva dripping off its long white teeth, lifting off its forelegs as it strained to get at the trapped orcling. Again, the pair of orcs looked to Skarloc, but this time their expressions were not of questioning but of enraged disbelief.

A pair of crude daggers, glinting dully in the cloud-dimmed sunlight tumbled through the air and landed roughly equidistant between the two orcs. That terribly satisfied grin upon Captain Skarloc's face didn't shift or wane, continuing to merely stare down imperiously upon the orc fighters in the pit. A fresh wail of fear pierced the din of the crowd as the dog handler loosened his grip on the chain slightly, the mastiff pulling for every inch, jaws snapping. The threat and consequences were clear to all.

Slowly the pair of orcs turned their heads to look upon one another again, no speaking this time, only a stony, silent gaze. The hairs along Goldtallow's arms stood on end as he imagined the sensation of choosing to kill a comrade rather than see a child be torn apart by a ravenous animal, to have to take life to save life. It was all terribly exciting. The orc fighters paced forward warily, each stooping to retrieve a dagger from the ground. Fingers rolling on the handles in nervous indecision the pair began to circle one another, but straight-backed and unguarded, the intent to kill still not present. Another gesture from Skarloc and the mastiff suddenly lunged forward, tearing at the orc child as it flailed to defend itself. The two adult orcs gaped in horror, helpless to intervene, yet seconds later the dog was pulled back but no fewer than two guards, still only roughly a foot from the now injured child. The circling that occurred after that was of the proper sort, crouched low with the dagger held back and down, free arm up as a shield.

The orcs had no choice, one of them had to die.

The first few strikes were little more then feints, each likely testing one another's seriousness regarding the battle. The crowd cheered as one of the daggers drew blood, a shallow cut along one of the orc's forearms. Dark blood, almost black like lamp oil oozed freely from the wound, drawing a subconscious grimace from Goldtallow. Was nothing about these orcs proper and natural? The one who was wounded looked to the wound, then back to his opponent, a look of grim resoluteness settling onto his porcine features.

The glinted blades flitted this way and that was strikes and slices were exchanged, even with such a seemingly tiny weapon in their large hands the orcish strength behind it would almost assure a lethal blow if it was well placed. The fervor of the crowd increased as the fight below became more serious, calls for the death of one or the other bellowing forth from dozens of human mouths, even some of the nobles lending their voices to the clamor. Gerric's noticed that his hands had curled into fists resting upon his knees as he leaned forward to clearly view every maneuver and riposte. Perhaps he should have placed a small wager on the one with his coarse hair in a single braid….

A crescendo in the dull roar of the crowd accompanied a fierce lunge forward by one of the pit fighters, his dagger plunging deep into the other's shoulder, a lethal blow to the heart only averted by a last-second turn of the upper body. As it was blood flowed freely from the wound once the dagger was withdrawn, the heavily injured orc staggering back until he hit the one of the cage walls, free hand pressed tightly over the deep gouge. The two orcs then regarded one another for several long moments, both breathing heavily as the battle reawakened the warrior within them both. Eventually the wounded orc pushed himself upright and advanced slowly, free hand still clenched over the wound, his dark blood drenching the left side of his torso. The fight would be over soon enough even if a lethal blow wasn't delivered before then. The crowd began chanting "Kill! Kill!" over and over, fists raised to punctuate each word. The two orcs barely acknowledged this, staring at one another as if lost in a world that was defined by the back iron bars around them. Goldtallow shuffled to the edge of his seat, mouth gone dry, barely blinking as the final moments of one of these beast's lives were unfolding before him.

Finally, after what seemed like an agonizingly long wait the wounded one nodded once to his opponent and the two green titans suddenly rushed at one another, daggers leading the way. Two bodies that each weighed as much as two Goldtallows collided, the daggers disappearing from view, the crowd roaring again then quieting somewhat as they results of the final blow were sought with avaricious eyes. The two orcs staggered apart, more dark blood smeared upon both their naked torsos. Impossible! A cheer went up from the crowd as the orc who had sported no serious injuries before had his opponent's dirk buried into his chest, nothing but shock and adrenalin keeping him standing. The wounded orc had taken his foe's dagger in the back of the hand, an undoubtedly excruciating wound but one that kept the blade from his heart. With surreal slowness the dead orc toppled backward to land lifeless to the dirt floor, chest awash in his life's blood. Carroway, Stal and Shavmoral stood up from their chairs and cheered loudly, obviously having bet upon the winning pit fighter while Emmeldale spat upon the wooden floor and Lord Hazelbrook sought solace from another pinch of snuff.

" Better luck next time, my friend, " Goldtallow chuckled with a pat upon his fellow lord's shoulder.

" At least I had the gall to put up a bet, " Emmeldale snipped in response, taking a long pull from his wine goblet. Gerric let the comment slide, his contemporary obviously upset about losing even more money.

Below the wounded orc looked upon his fallen foe with the sad realization of a drunkard surveying the damage he had done the night previous. With a brief roar of pain the withdrew the dagger from the back of his hand and flung it aside, trying to clutch both his wounds to stem the bleeding. He looked up hatefully at Skarloc, who only grinned in response, white teeth visible from between the golden whorls of his mustache and beard.

" Would it please you gentlemen to know that the two you just saw fight so savagely were brothers? " the guard captain asked from behind his grin, sweeping his gaze over the assembled noblemen. Tilts of the head and clucking of tongues signaled their surprise and, in most cases, approval.

" What a misbegotten race, slaying their own kin with barely a thought, " Shavmoral said with obvious disgust, his portly rump finding his chair again which he slumped back into with a sigh.

" The worst that humanity can muster seems to flow through these greenskins like water through a river, " Emmeldale agreed. In the pit below the remaining orc cast his head back and issued a bellowing roar, one that, if any had cared to listen for, carried a tone of immense sadness towards the stormy heavens. Some humans echoed this sound, thinking it was a cheer for victory, clinking tankards and swallowing down the foamy contents in celebration.

" What of the orc child? " Goldtallow found himself asking as Skarloc made move to leave. Gerric hoped that his tone was proper, that it sounded like idle curiosity rather than genuine concern. Captain Skarloc paused, looking down to the still weeping orcling before giving his response, that wicked grin still upon his bearded face.  
" He'll live. We'll need the young to grow up to fight, now won't we? "


End file.
